


The Good Horcrux

by asterismal (asterisms)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Emotional Manipulation, Grooming, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Harry experiences a prolonged existential crisis, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage, M/M, Minor Character Death, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:47:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23731048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterisms/pseuds/asterismal
Summary: He is a horcrux.He cradles his Lord’s soul beneath skin and muscle and bone. He’sproud,because he’s special. He's special, because he is alone in the world; there is nothing like him except his Lord and a snake and a collection of trinkets, hidden away.And because he's special, he is loved.He isloved.Only, he didn’t know love could feel this way; he didn’t think it was supposed to hurt.This is what Harry knows of love: it keeps him safe—it burns.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 23
Kudos: 515
Collections: Corona Challenge





	The Good Horcrux

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [Ladybird_Sparrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladybird_Sparrow/pseuds/Ladybird_Sparrow) in the [CoronaChallenge](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/CoronaChallenge) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
>  "A good Horcrux does what he's told."
> 
> Except Harry does not.
> 
> From a very young age, Harry knew what he was and was raised to believe how lucky and honorable it was to serve as a vessel for their Lord's soul. For a few years, he too believed it, was devoted and had fallen in love for their Lord. Until he got to know about the rebels that died from the war and witnessed the dark side of their Lord and Saviour Voldemort.
> 
>   
> I don't know if this is the darkest fic I've ever written, but it's probably up there. 
> 
> **More detailed warnings in the end notes**

Harry Potter is a horcrux.

The first time he knows what this means—really _knows_ —he’s eight years old and bleeding.

It’s a small thing, he thinks as he pokes at the scrape on his arm, feels the way it stings as he moves, like it’s bleeding little sparks of fire. It’s nothing at all.

It was an accident.

He only wanted to play, that’s all. That’s _all._

But the man on the floor is screaming, and his face is flushed red, and his cheeks are shining, smeared with tears and snot. And it isn’t his fault. But it is.

It is.

They were only playing. He was only—

The screams reach a new pitch. The man’s voice cracks, as if his throat is giving out.

Harry can’t breathe.

He presses his palm to the broken skin on his arm, and it hurts. His eyes burn. When he blinks, he feels a hot line of tears spill down his cheeks. 

He can’t _breathe._

Neither can the man on the floor. He sounds as if he’s choking, and a sour smell fills the air, mixes with the burnt scent of his Lord’s magic. Harry closes his eyes because he doesn’t want it to be real. He wants to be far away from here, back in the garden with the sun in his eyes and the man’s laughter booming through the open air as he raced across the grass.

It was only a game, and it was fun.

No one plays with him.

No one, except—He has a daughter, Harry knows, because the man told him. She’s six years old and likes it when her father chases her, when he grabs her in his arms and swings her into the air.

He keeps his eyes closed, and he does his best to breathe.

And then he opens them.

It’s his fault, he thinks. The least he can do is watch.

The man isn’t moving anymore. He isn’t screaming.

He only lies there, curled up on the floor. He’s so—He’s not himself. Harry knew a man with big, kind hands and a bigger, kinder laugh. He knew a man so tall he could always pick the best fruits from their branches, even without magic, and he didn’t even have to stand on his toes.

He doesn’t look so big, now.

A hand touches his face, and Harry flinches before he can stop himself. His Lord doesn’t like it when he flinches, because his Lord is _good_ , and Harry has nothing to fear. He knows it’s true, only—

The man on the floor doesn’t tremble anymore.

He looks so _small._

His vision blurs, and Harry chokes on his next breath.

His Lord sighs.

“Harry,” his Lord says, and his voice is so kind, and it makes his eyes burn hotter. He traces one finger down Harry’s cheek, as if he could erase the tears he finds there. “My treasure, do you understand why this happened?”

Harry swallows. He takes a wet, heaving breath. “Yes,” he says, his voice thick. “It’s because I fell.”

“Oh, my darling.” His Lord kneels before him, takes his shoulders in his big hands, and Harry hunches forward, trembling. “You didn’t just fall; you were hurt. He let you be hurt, and so he hurt his Lord.”

Harry throws himself forward into his Lord’s arms, gripping tight at his robes. “But I’m fine,” he wails, and he knows he’s dirtying his Lord’s robes but he doesn’t know how to stop. “I’m _fine.”_

His Lord shushes him and rises to his feet, Harry in his arms. “He let you bleed, my treasure,” he says as he cards his fingers through Harry’s hair. “That’s enough.”

And Harry doesn’t understand, but he feels so small, suddenly, as if his Lord could squeeze his arms around him and he’d shrink into nothing. His stomach hurts. His chest feels tight, like there’s a snake curled up between his ribs, coiled tight around his lungs.

“I’m _fine,”_ he says into his Lord’s shoulder, his fists clenching in his robes. 

But his Lord only shushes him again and carries him from the room, and the last thing Harry sees over his Lord’s shoulder is the man’s body, splayed out across the floor, pale and heavy and not moving at all.

Harry doesn’t play much, after.

But that’s alright.

He has his Lord, and his Lord is enough. Because his Lord lets him sit beside him as he works, and sometimes he’ll read to him. Even rarer, and even better, sometimes his Lord will tell him stories.

“…so you see, my treasure,” his Lord tells him one night, as he touches his cold hand to Harry’s brow, tucks an errant curl behind his ear. “I vowed to myself that I would never be afraid again. I would conquer every enemy, and I would become the greatest wizard the world has ever known.”

“And you did,” Harry says, looking up at his Lord with wide eyes.

His Lord smiles, and Harry feels something warm uncoil in his chest. He feels safe here, beneath his gaze. He never wants to leave. “And I did.”

“So you’re never afraid at all?” Harry asks, awed at the thought.

Sometimes he feels as if he’s always afraid, even when he’s safe.

“Well,” his Lord says, and he smiles again. He cards his fingers through Harry’s hair, pushing it away from his forehead. “I suppose I’m afraid of one thing.”

Harry gasps. “What is it?”

His Lord reaches down and grabs Harry beneath his arms, lifting him as if he weighs nothing at all. Harry settles happily into his Lord’s lap, sitting sideways so he can press his ear to his Lord’s chest and look up at his face, tracing the familiar features with his gaze.

“I’m afraid of losing you,” his Lord tells him, his voice little more than a whisper, and Harry feels his breath catch. He knows, of course, his value.

He is his Lord’s horcrux, after all. How could he not be valued? But he is not the only horcrux, and his flesh makes him weak—vulnerable. He thinks sometimes that his Lord must resent him.

But he doesn’t, Harry thinks with a burning joy in his chest, too powerful for words.

He burrows closer, blinks back tears.

“You won’t,” he says, his voice as firm as he can make it. He grabs one of his Lord’s hands, clutching tight. “I promise.”

Sometimes it scares him, the things his Lord says, the things he’s seen, but he knows no one has ever loved him so much.

He knows no one could ever love him better.

“Oh, my treasure,” his Lord says, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead, and Harry moves closer, leaning into the touch. “I know. Nothing will take you from me, you’ll see.” He kisses his forehead again, and Harry sighs happily. “I’ll keep you safe.”

He thinks his Lord says something more, but he doesn’t hear it. 

Safe and warm, he falls asleep in his Lord’s arms, and he thinks there’s nowhere he’d rather be.

Once, his Lord takes him to Diagon Alley.

Harry has been asking to go for weeks, curious about the world beyond the walls of his Lord’s manor, and his Lord has finally agreed.

Harry is quickly dazzled by the sight of so many people.

Ever since he can remember, he’s lived in large, empty halls, where only his Lord’s most trusted dare to tread. Those who visit have little to say to their Lord’s horcrux, and so even when he isn’t alone, he rarely has anyone to talk to.

But here, in Diagon Alley, there are people all around.

They’re so loud, Harry thinks with an awed sort of glee. They’re so _bright._

He wonders for a guilty moment what it would be like to be one of them. And then he shoves the thought away, because it’s unworthy of him. He isn’t one of them, after all. He belongs to his Lord. He is beyond them.

He will never be one of them, and this is the way it should be.

At the sight of his Lord, the people clear away, averting their eyes in respect and bowing their heads. They tremble at his presence, as if they can’t bear to look upon him and all his power. His Lord spares them no attention, but Harry can’t help himself.

He clutches at his Lord’s hand as he trots along, turning his head every which way, tying to take it all in.

There’s a girl watching them with big eyes, her hair shining like fire in the sun, and Harry grins, waving.

She starts to wave back, but her mother snatches her hand before she can, dragging her away. Harry’s grin falters, but one glance to his Lord centers him again, and he shoves this new, aching sort of hurt deep down until he can’t feel it anymore.

He has his Lord, he thinks as he holds tighter to his hand, as they move among these people like ghosts—untouchable. His Lord looks down at him, his red eyes glinting in the sun, and he squeezes Harry’s hand in turn.

And it’s enough.

It _is._

He doesn’t ask to go again.

He turns eleven, and he doesn’t go to Hogwarts.

He asks, once, whether he can.

And his Lord frowns at him. “For what, my treasure?” he asks, and there’s an edge to his voice that makes Harry’s shoulders tense. He’s not afraid of his Lord, he tells himself, because his Lord is good and has never given him pain he did not deserve. “What are you missing? What is there that I have not given you?”

He’s not afraid, and yet…

He swallows thickly; his throat feels dry. He says, “Nothing, my Lord.”

His gaze falls to the floor.

His Lord sighs. He trails one finger down Harry’s cheek, across his jaw, until he can press beneath his chin, until Harry has no choice but to meet his Lord’s eyes. “Have I disappointed you, my treasure?” his Lord asks.

Harry is shaking his head before the question is finished. “Never,” he says, something frantic rising in his chest. He thinks he could be sick.

He thinks he could cry, but he blinks, and his eyes are dry.

“Good,” his Lord says. He smiles, and Harry lets the sight of it warm him, because it means his Lord is pleased. “If this should change…”

“It won’t.”

His Lord looks amused. “But if it does—”

“I am happy when I please you, my Lord,” Harry says, and he means it. He lifts one hand to grip his Lord’s wrist. He feels the beat of his Lord’s pulse beneath his fingers. “It’s all I want.”

His Lord’s eyes narrow at the interruption, but he only sighs, fond. “You test me, my treasure.”

Harry doesn’t look away, though he wants to. “I’m sorry.”

“You needn’t be.” His Lord smiles again, less fleeting this time. “I indulge you so. It is my own doing, is it not?”

Harry wavers, caught. If he agrees, he places the blame for his own faults on his Lord. But to deny it would be to deny his Lord. He bites at his lip, the only outward sign he’ll show, then says, “It’s not for me to say.” 

And his Lord is pleased again.

This is how the years pass: Harry grows, and his Lord watches.

He is a horcrux in a body.

He is a ghost, trapped beneath a person’s skin.

He haunts his Lord’s halls, and no one pays him any attention. When they do, it isn’t _him_ they’re seeing. They look into his eyes—though even this is rare—and they see their Lord looking back.

Is this all he is?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t ask.

And then he does.

It’s Yule, and his Lord has opened his halls to the public. For the second time in his life, there are people everywhere he looks.

Harry doesn’t ask if he can join them.

Instead, he sits at his Lord’s feet, looking out over the party. It’s all very pretty, he thinks, taking in the chandeliers that glitter above the crowd, the way the light catches on jewel adorned bodies and the crystal glasses on silver trays that move between them, full of some sparkling drink— _Champagne,_ Bella had told him once, giving him a sip and laughing at the sour face he made as soon as it touched his tongue.

He thinks he can almost taste it still, sparks of something bright and sweet behind his teeth.

He _knows_ he can’t join them. But he wonders.

He asks, “Am I a person?” And for all that he hadn’t meant to, had meant to keep the question to himself, he doesn’t try to take the words back. He doesn’t think his Lord will hurt him for it. Not really.

Not yet.

His Lord’s hand stills in his hair, then resumes its petting, slower than before. “Why do you ask?”

Harry shrugs, doing his best to mimic the casual elegance of his Lord, though he doubts he manages it. His shoulders are probably too small to get it right. Or maybe he needs more practice.

“No reason,” he says, and it’s mostly true—true enough, at least, that he won’t be punished for it. “I was just wondering.”

“Hmm.” His Lord tugs gently at his hair, until he leans back to meet his eyes, and he feels as laid bare as ever beneath his gaze. “Does it matter?”

Of course it matters, Harry wants to say, but he stops himself before he can, and his Lord smiles at his restraint. _Of course it matters_ , he thinks, in the back of his mind where his Lord rarely treads.

Doesn’t it?

Only… If it does matter, surely his Lord would say so.

Surely, he wouldn’t have asked. 

Harry is released, then, and he looks back to the party—at all its shining, moving parts. “No,” he says, thoughtful and a little bit sad, though he thinks he shouldn’t be. “I guess it doesn’t.”

This is how Harry grows: he is alone and he is not a person and his Lord is _always_ watching.

One day, the way his Lord watches him… changes.

His touches linger, heavy against his body. There is a new light to his eyes, bright and greedy when he thinks Harry doesn’t see. He doesn’t understand it.

One night, Harry is invited to his Lord’s bed. He doesn’t say no. He doesn’t think he can.

He doesn’t understand it then, either. 

Then he does.

He is a horcrux.

He is a cradle for his Lord’s soul, held beneath skin and muscle and bone. He’s _proud,_ because he’s special. He’s special, because he is alone in the world; there is nothing like him except his Lord and a snake and a collection of trinkets, hidden away.

And because he’s special, he is loved.

He is _loved._

Only, he didn’t know love could feel this way; he didn’t think it was supposed to hurt.

This is what Harry knows of love: it keeps him safe—it burns.

And his Lord is _good,_ he knows. He gives Harry no pain he doesn’t deserve.

He wonders, then, what he did to deserve this.

It burns in his body. It burns in his hips and his back and his arse, after. Sometimes for days. It burns in his chest, rotten and aching and so hot it makes him _sick._

Is this all he is? 

He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to know.

He doesn’t say no; he thinks it wouldn’t matter if he did. 

He doesn’t say no because this is what he is. He’s a _horcrux._ He’s known this—known what it means—for years.

 _He remembers a garden. He remembers a man with large hands and a booming laugh—he remembers a corpse._

This is what he is.

One day—one year and three months and seventeen days since the first time—his Lord comes to him with blood on his hands. He takes Harry into the bath, and he lets Harry wash the blood away until he’s clean.

He doesn’t explain where the blood is from, and Harry doesn’t ask. 

But he wonders.

He finds it three days later.

There is a group of his Lord’s servants in the hall. They’re loud when they laugh, and they don’t notice him. They never notice him. He follows them, past a door he’s never seen before, into a cellar that smells of blood and the stink of unwashed bodies—of bodies that are sick and bleeding and dead.

His Lord is there with them; he’s watching.

He’s laughing.

Harry presses his back flush against the wall and begs the shadows to hold him safe. He clasps his hands over his mouth. He can’t breathe. He thinks he might be sick.

He doesn’t know the strange man writhing on the ground, and he doesn’t know why he’s here.

But he’s in pain.

He’s in pain, and he’s— _he remembers the sun in his eyes and a warm, open hand, helping him stand after he falls_ —screaming.

He forces his breaths steady.

He doesn’t panic.

He watches from the shadows, and he does nothing because he doesn’t know what to do. Eventually, the screaming stops. His Lord’s servants leave, and his Lord follows with them.

Harry stays.

He creeps forward, his footsteps near silent as he walks across blood-slick stone. When he’s close enough, he kneels and his robes soak through. He touches one hand to the man’s neck, feeling for a pulse.

He’s alive.

Harry shudders and falls forward, until his forehead is almost touching the floor, and his hair will surely drip with blood when he rises again.

He’s _alive,_ but only just. Harry doesn’t know what to do.

He wants to leave. He wants to forget this place.

But he can’t.

Because this man is in pain, and he’s dying, and he shouldn’t be alone.

And his Lord is good, and his Lord loves him—but his Lord laughed as he watched this man scream, as he watched this man bleed. And Harry doesn’t know what’s true.

But he knows that this was _wrong._

The man opens his eyes, and Harry freezes, his heart in his throat. The man looks confused; his eyes are glassy, feverish. He’s looking at Harry.

When he speaks, his voice is weak, hoarse. “James?”

And Harry doesn’t know what to do, but when the man lifts one trembling hand, he catches it in his own, holding it as gently as he can. The man grips his hand tight. Or, he tries.

Harry takes a deep, shuddering breath, and then he lies. “Yes,” he says, “I’m here.”

There’s a weight in his chest that makes it difficult to speak. He speaks anyway.

His eyes burn, but he doesn’t cry.

“I’m sorry, James,” the man is saying to whoever it is he sees. His voice shakes as he struggles to breathe. “I’m so—” He stops short, coughing or choking, Harry can’t tell. And Harry doesn’t know how to help, so he only listens. “I tried,” the man says, weaker than before, “but I… I couldn’t… I couldn’t find…”

Harry shushes him, pushing his lank hair away from his face as he shuffles closer and lifts the man’s head into his lap. “It’s alright,” he says.

The man groans as he leans into his touch. “Please,” he says, and Harry can hardly hear him, now. “Please…”

Harry wipes away the man’s tears, does his best to wipe away the blood. “It’s alright,” he says again. 

The man opens his mouth, but this time, all that comes out is a rattling breath. His eyes lose what little focus they had, and his grip on Harry’s hand spasms then slackens.

Harry doesn’t let go.

He doesn’t move. 

He holds the man until he dies, and he hopes it’s worth anything at all.

In the aftermath, he feels hollow.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, on his knees in the dark with no company but a dead man. He doesn’t care. He only closes his eyes and reminds himself to keep breathing.

By the time he moves again, the empty space inside him has turned into something new.

He lifts the man’s head from his lap and lays it gently upon the floor. He closes the man’s eyes. When he stands, his knees ache.

He goes back the way he came.

Beyond the cellar door, the sun is shining. For a long moment, Harry only stands there in the empty hall, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

When they do, he lets the door fall shut behind him and makes his way to his room.

He doesn’t look back; he doesn’t need to.

In his mind’s eye, he sees a trail of bloody footsteps, stark against the marble floor. He trails one hand along the wall, and here, too, he leaves a trail to follow.

It feels good.

Because he's not a ghost. His body is solid, and what it touches, it changes.

He hasn’t slept in his room for months, but it’s the same as when he left it. On the south-facing wall, there is a window. In the bottom corner, so faint no one will see if they don’t put their face right up against the glass, there’s a crack.

It’s been there for years, growing just a little bigger with every passing day.

Harry doesn’t have a wand, but there’s a desk in his room and a chair to match. He moves the desk in front of the door. He lifts the chair. His arms tremble as he holds it, but he holds it. He walks toward the window.

In the distance, he hears someone shouting.

They’ll come running, soon. He doesn’t care; by the time they get here, he’ll be gone.

He’s far above the ground, but he’s fallen from greater heights before, and his magic has always caught him. With all his strength, he tosses the chair at the window, and the glass, already cracked, shatters.

There’s a hole in the window, now, big enough for a person to leap from.

The wind blows through it, and the air is cold.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Warnings:** Harry was raised to believe Voldemort could do no wrong. He was commonly regarded as either an object or an extension of Voldemort rather than his own person, and no one did anything to discourage this. No sex is shown in this fic. However, at fifteen or sixteen, Voldemort initiates a sexual relationship between them. Harry is unsure if he’s allowed to say no, and even if he did, he has no power to stop Voldemort. As such, it's rape (statutory and otherwise), even if Harry doesn’t actually call it that. 
> 
> Also, there are some scenes of Harry witnessing torture/death.


End file.
